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I get the address from his phone. I slide into my clothes. I walk him to the door.

I steal one more sweet, soft, slow, soul-filling kiss.

He looks down at me, curiosity in his dark eyes. He can tell I’m off someplace. He can tell the energy is different.

I rise to my tiptoes and wrap my arms around him and hold him tightly. "In case you don't make it back," I say.

He nods into my shoulder, accepting my answer but not buying it.

And then he leaves. What else can he do? He doesn't have time to stop and break it down.

He has a witness to interview.

Hopefully, he’s distracted by this glimpse of the truth.

He sees me.

That’s why he calls me his little devil.

He just can’t see the one tiny thing I keep hidden:

I kill people for a living.

MATTEO

The safe house is a quiet spot. A villa nestled on a cliff, surrounded by low brush and the brilliant orange light of sunset.

The dramatic setting is meant to inspire the witness to the raw power of Mi6, but it threatens my concentration instead. This is exactly the sort of spot Jamie would pick.

I can see her here, in some sexy black dress, and heels. A silk down with a slit high enough to show off the snake tattooed on her thigh. High enough she can’t wear anything under her skirt.

I could drop my knees and taste her.

Dammit. This is not the time. I need to bring my A-game. If I don’t flip this man, I hit another dead end. And god knows when I’ll find another lead.

Olympus is too powerful.

The female-run crime ring kills everyone who threatens to talk.

But not today.

Today, I find out everything this man knows about Nike, the assassin who’s constantly one step ahead of me.

Then I go home and I wrap my arms around Jamie and celebrate properly.

My thoughts go to her groan. The way her lips part as her fingers dig into my skin.

I love an abrupt ending. It keeps me sharp. As long as I channel all that energy into my mission.

I allow myself one moment to savor the memory of her body against mine, then I slip into the abandoned mansion.

Inside, the villa is gorgeous but unkempt. Dust covers old furniture. Musty blinds block the brilliant sunset, but they can’t keep the scent of salt and citronella from the air.

I creep up the winding wooden stairs.

But I’m too late.

Casanova is in the master bedroom, handcuffed to a chair, plastic bag over his head, body limp.